Contemplations
by kaydee falls
Summary: RENTfic. The varied thoughts going through their minds on that last Christmas Eve. Mimi's part is up. (after a long break)
1. Hating Him - Maureen

DISCLAIMER: y'all should be thankin' your lucky stars that they aren't mine, cause they'll never be happy with me. I just dabble.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have already created a morbid Rent universe. This does not take place in that universe. It is its own story. Respect it as such....This is Maureen's POV.  
RATED: PG13 or maybe R for some language. Nah, just PG13.  
  
Hating Him  
by kaydee falls  
  
-------------------------  
It's Christmas. Mimi's back, Roger's glowing, Collins is smiling, Mark is filming, Joanne and I are (temporarily) patched, and Angel's dead. What a gee diddly happy go lucky group we are tonight. All six of us. Everyone else, they remember seven. They forgot the eighth.  
  
Benny. They all know how much I hate Benny, right? I make it obvious enough, don't I? God knows I try. I mean, I do hate Benny. That fuck.  
  
That fuck.  
  
Where is he tonight? Muffy Westport's estate. Fuck him. What the hell is he doing there, living in the lap of luxury, with his cell phones and velvet cushions and expensive shoes. And his dear, devoted Muffy. What bullshit, they say. They hate him too, you know. They think he's fake, he's lost his heart, he's all cold inside. He married Alison for her money, they say. He screws them over with the rent.  
  
And I hate him the most passionately of all. Not because he tried to call off my damn protest. I don't give a shit what he tried to do with the performance. I hated him before that. I hated him when we were still living together.  
  
Me, Benny, Mark, Roger, Collins. Those were the days, they reminisce. And I was the diva, the chick, the one they all wanted to fuck. That was the reason I decided to room with them in the first place. To be singled out, special. I could have wrapped them all around my little finger, if I wanted. Even Collins. If I tried, I could've made him straight as a board. But I didn't try. What interest did I have in Collins? And when Roger found that April chick, I didn't care. I didn't want him.  
  
I wanted Benny.  
  
People call me a pervert, behind my back. Why the hell shouldn't they? I act it out. Another performance. I always was an actress. And, frankly, I enjoy myself. Flirting. Take a look at me, you'll know why I always get my way. I was made like this, I was given this body--might as well use it. And I wanted to use it on Benny.  
  
So I began the careful process of seducing him. Appeal to his sensibilities, flash mischievous smiles his way, coyly play with his jacket. Become his best buddy, know him inside out. And then he's mine.  
  
I knew Benny better than anyone else. I knew the inner workings of his mind and of his heart. Oh, he has a heart. Believe me, I know. Every fucking stupid thing he does, he's doing because he thinks he's helping his pals. Half the time he's wrong, of course, poor misguided soul. He just can't comprehend why they all turned bitter after he married Alison.  
  
That idiot. Because I arranged it. I turned them all against him, twisted the facts out of proportion, hissed misleadingly into their ears. And like sheep, they followed, believed, obeyed. That's right, Benny dear, I single-handedly thrust you out of the lives of your best friends.  
  
Why? Because he loved her. Alison. My fucking best friend from high school. Betcha didn't know that, did you, boys? And I loved him. I couldn't let him do that to me. I remember the day he met her, coming home, rushing to me, sparkling with good news and joy. And told me that he was in love. With Alison fucking Westport. That bitch stole Benny from me.  
  
And the part that hurt the worst, he never wanted me to begin with. I'm still dumbfounded. All my seductions, wiles, they failed to impress him at all. I wanted him, I ached for him, I starved myself to be thin enough for him, closed off all other guys so that he would know that I was his, his alone, and that bastard never even noticed.  
  
I tried to win him back to me. For weeks, I pandered to him, wore all my most revealing outfits, tried to cuddle with him, kiss him, anything. All for naught. As a last ditch, bitter attempt, I began dating my faithful puppy dog Marky, hoping against hope that Benny would see that and become wildly jealous and realize that it was me he loved, me, not Muffy. And what came of it? That fuck was happy for Mark and me. Happy! For Mark and me! He was so excited that now I had found true love just like he had with Alison. That's when I started hating him. I hated him, so strongly, there was no room for anything else in me. I had given myself away to this pathetic camera geek while my Benny was off screwing my former best friend.  
  
And then he left, to marry her. Not for her money. For love. That's when I moved out, too, found my own apartment. I didn't dump Mark immediately, just cheated on him. Frequently. I made excuses to myself, told myself that I was just keeping him until I found another Benny, and then I'd dump him, honestly, out in the open.  
  
All I found were more cold, egotistical men. After a while, I gave up. Men, I realized, were scum. So I turned to women instead. And found Joanne.  
  
Do I love Joanne? Yes, I must. I have to. I keep going back to her, keep needing her. That's love, isn't it?  
  
But in the darkest hour of the night, just before dawn, that's when I cry out in my sleep for Benny. Joanne sleeps like a log; she never notices. What would I do if she did notice, one dark morning? I don't know. I need her. But I want Benny.  
  
They call him a fake. He's not. He married not for money, but for love. Everything he did with his money was for his old buddies, still living in the loft he now owns. His fling with Mimi? Purely sexual; he didn't care for her much otherwise. He screwed around with her, twice, because Alison was pregnant both times, and so my poor Benny was sex starved. The first time was a miscarriage; he stopped seeing Mimi. The second time, Muffy went to full term. She pulled Benny out of the East Village location, all right. The brat was born. He wasn't going to stray from that rich bitch's side once there was Benjamin Coffin the Fourth to look after in Westport. But I'll bet the guys never knew that. I knew. I always know. I keep close tabs on my Benny, my dear, sweet, lovable, asshole Benny. That prick.  
  
He's a good guy at heart.  
  
I hate him because I love him. It's as simple as that. Merry Christmas to me.  
-------------------  
done now....this is what happens when an idea sounds good in my head and comes out a bit strangely on the computer  
please review anyway, just because i said so.


	2. Misconceptions - Mark

Misconceptions

DISCLAIMER: ...has been mentioned previously  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: if anyone was wondering, these vignettes aren't exactly connected. i'm just taking a look at each individual characters' thoughts at the end of the musical Rent. any background i mention in one holds true for the others, but that's it. now that you are all completely confused, on with the show!....this is Mark's POV.  
  
Misconceptions  
by kaydee falls  
  
---------------------------  
I think I can honestly say that I'm happy right now. I assume that's the correct term for my feelings. It's been so long since I've felt pure joy that it's kind of hard to tell.  
  
Well, no worry. It won't last long. Better start filming now, though, or I'll forget the strange sensation.  
  
I capture Roger and Mimi with my camera. Wow. If I'm happy, then they must be positively euphoric. He hasn't looked this great since he stopped using drugs, and she....well, she is Mimi. Much better looking than only a few minutes ago.  
  
Seeing the two of them, I feel the first pangs of bitterness, envy. Hastily, I pan away. Happy, Mark. Happy, happy, happy.  
  
Collins noticed. He always does. Angel's death hasn't dulled his various talents at all. Such as his incredible ability to notice everything. I mean, they call me the observer, but this man misses nothing.  
  
His interpretations, however, aren't quite so accurate. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the others all believe him, especially regarding me.  
  
Frankly, they all think I'm gay. He saw my jealousy -- gosh, Mark, couldn't you even be glad that Mimi's back, without seeing her as competition? Because, of course, I'm madly in love with my best friend, Roger.  
  
Of course.  
  
I can't believe they actually believe that.  
  
But hey, whatever they want is fine by me. Let them think what they want to think. It doesn't bother me, much. It provides me with a grain of humor, anyway.  
  
Do I love Roger? Sure. He's my best friend. I practically mothered him for six months, after April died, which isn't too easy when your girlfriend is as demanding as Maureen. That's probably where this all started, anyway. The main reason she dumped me was because she fell in love with Joanne. But an underlying part was her opinion that I was far too devoted to Roger. That I was in love with him.  
  
What was I supposed to do, let him self-destruct? He wouldn't have taken his AZT. He wouldn't have gone to the rehab. I couldn't make him leave the loft, but at least I kept him alive. I had to. He was my best friend. Problem is, some people can't see the difference between and in love. Hence, I am apparently in love with Roger.  
  
Stepping back to capture the whole group, I can't help but notice an absence. Against my will, my eyes prickle with tears. The loft just seems a little emptier without Angel.  
  
Angel. She was the only one who understood me, who knew the truth. I think her death was the single event that convinced me to be an atheist. All it took is one comment that God has collected his brightest Angel to do the trick. That's it. If God existed, he would have to be extremely selfish and cruel. And don't go telling me about His mysterious ways; I don't want to hear it. Either He's a royal asshole, or He doesn't exist, and I'd rather believe the latter. As to Angel sending Mimi back to us, well, I just don't buy that. But it's the sort of thing she would do.  
  
Angel had a bizarre sense of intuition. I remember, back at the end of August, the group of us were right here in the loft. It was one of those rare periods in which everyone was speaking to everyone else. We were all just chatting each up, munching on chips, and Roger and Mimi started nuzzling. Not too unusual. I quickly looked away, putting on my blank face. No emotions. That's when I heard the whisperings.  
  
Maureen had nudged the duo, hissing for them to stop for my sake. My blank face went a lovely shade of pink as all eyes were turned on me.  
  
Ugh.  
  
For one, intense moment, I hated them. All of them. The next murmurs going around were of the poor-Marky-he's-so-vulnerable-how-could-you-Roger-making-him-jealous variety. I just couldn't take it, and I quietly went into my bedroom.  
  
Behind me, they started talking in low tones, like I couldn't hear them. Discussing my love for Roger. It was downright humiliating, but I refused the urge to cry.  
  
After a few minutes, Angel stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. Are you all right, Mark? she asked gently.  
  
I reassembled the blank face. Yeah, I'm fine, I replied.  
  
Look, I know they're all wrong, she told me. I know you're not gay. What I don't know is why you're so touchy on the subject. You act like homosexuality is a bad thing. Personally, I ought to be offended. She smiled a little.  
  
I sighed. It's not bad, I wouldn't be ashamed of it. It just that I'm not.  
  
So just tell them.  
  
Sometimes it's easier when they think I'm in love with Roger, I whispered.  
  
Angel regarded me in silence for a few long moments. Oh, I see, she said suddenly, sadly. It hits too close for comfort, doesn't it?  
  
You could say that, I said cautiously, unwilling to carry this conversation forward.  
  
You're not jealous of Mimi, are you? Angel asked. I didn't respond. You're jealous of Roger, she continued softly.  
  
I can't tell them the truth, I said hoarsely. He's my best friend.  
  
And how do you tell your best friend that you're in love with his girlfriend? she finished my thought. It was a rhetorical question; neither of us could answer it. I'm sorry, she said, finally.  
  
I shook my head. It's nothing to do with you, I responded.  
  
Angel grinned wryly. It is now, she commented, staring off into space. Dispassionately, She is beautiful.  
  
I nodded, voicelessly. Standing, the drag queen put a hand on my shoulder briefly. It'll work out somehow, she said lightly. Come out when you're ready.  
  
Two months later, Angel was dead.  
  
I've tried to make it work out, really I have. I kept encouraging Roger with her, convincing him that she loved him, not Benny, forcing him to apologize after the worst fights. Deep down, I couldn't watch him hurt her. And in my own, personal lows, especially when I was patching up a fight based on Benny, I would irrationally wonder if every guy was fucking her, except me.  
  
I couldn't help it. I remember when I first saw her, that Christmas Eve. Roger had been talking about her nonstop, but I was barely half listening. I was still sore about Maureen. I even remember him pointing Mimi out to me: _There, that's her!_ And I responded,   
  
How embarrassing.  
  
But then I saw her. And even knowing she was a junkie, knowing that she was after Roger and he rather liked her, too, I fell for her. Immediately.   
  
So I tried to rationalize it away. I made myself film her kiss with Roger. I convinced myself that this sudden infatuation was only to help me get over Maureen, and once I had, I would be able to move on to other women.  
  
Which worked out fine, except I was now stuck on Mimi.  
  
And now here I am, a year later, and I should be ecstatic that she lived. Instead, I am merely happy. And no doubt that will fade once it registers that she is Roger's not mine.  
  
Why isn't she mine?  
  
Yeah, I'm jealous. But sorry, Collins, not because I want Roger. I'm in love with Mimi, and I just can't help it.  
  
Sometimes, I wonder if she even sees me.  
  
I wish I knew why my parents named me Mark. I'm trying to make my mark in this world, on people's lives, but somehow I always wind up behind the camera. Invisible. Funny, isn't it, how these things work out sometimes.  
--------------------------------  
  
sometimes i read so much m/r slash that my head pops and something like this comes out. don't get me wrong, i like reading m/r slash, but they're just so much of it! anyways, give me a nice review in the box provided. i'm going to keep writing these sporadically until i get all the main characters down, but since it's not exactly a continuing story line, there might be some time between parts. i hope you enjoy!


	3. Illogical - Joanne

Illogical

DISCLAIMER: whaddya mean they're not mine? psh. anyhows, this is Joanne's POV.  
  
Illogical  
by kaydee falls  
  
-------------------------------  
Mimi's back. How the hell is Mimi back? She died. I would bet my own life on it. And yet, without a doctor, or resuscitation, or anything, she suddenly was back, with an Angel story. Do I believe it? I don't know. It's a hard thing to wrap my mind around. It doesn't make sense to me. It isn't logical.  
  
Then again, the best things in life never are.  
  
I'm a logical person. Logic, and experience, have taught me never, ever to fall in love at first sight.  
  
Many women don't have quite this problem. They see a guy on the street, they're attracted to him, they generally will assume he's straight. Me, I see a gal on the street, I'm attracted to her -- and, frankly, I can't assume that she's a fellow lesbian. Makes things a little difficult; I can't really hit on anyone until I get to know them well.  
  
Fortunately, I am not the sort of person who falls in love easily. I don't even develop minor crushes easily. Until senior year in high school, I'd assumed that I was a heterosexual, for the sheer reason that as I had never been attracted to anyone, I had never been attracted to anyone gender-specific. Then I developed a crush on my best friend at the time, a girl named Crystal. Jesus. No wonder they call it a I mean, as soon as I identified the nature of my feelings, I knew that it would never work out -- she was very, very straight. I was crushed.  
  
So that's why I made a promise to myself that I would never fall in love with anyone before determining their sexual orientation. It wasn't too hard.  
  
I broke that promise the very day I met Maureen.  
  
I had gone to a singles bar after work that evening. I had just had an all-around bad day. A client was giving me a lot of trouble -- Somebody Murget, I remember -- and I was, well, single. I had tried a couple of relationships with women in the past few months, but none of them had clicked. I thought they were flippant and silly. They thought I was anal retentive.  
  
At any rate, I was sitting at the bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when I realized that the woman sitting on the stool next to me was talking to herself. Not particularly loudly, but surprisingly coherent. Stupid son of a bitch, she was mumbling. Asshole. Prick. Lousy piece of--  
  
Excuse me, I cut in, but I had to ask. Why did he break up with you? I regretted the words as soon as I said them. They were rather, um, cold and insensitive. I realized that I might be getting drunk.  
  
The girl glowered at me, her dark eyes smoldering. He didn't, she said shortly. We weren't dating or anything. She slurred her words slightly, and I figured she was probably getting drunk as well.  
  
The routine heartbreak of a single chick? I ask, again not particularly sensitively.  
  
She blinked a few times, considering. she finally decided. I'm not single. Abruptly, she submerged herself into the glass of alcohol again.  
  
I cocked an eyebrow. Funny, why a non-single girl would spend her evening in a singles bar, miserable over a man she wasn't dating.  
  
She sighed and came up for air. The glass was empty. Her eyes met mine mournfully, and I fell for her in seconds. Stunned by the epiphany, I immediately began berating myself. Stupid broad, you know she's straight! my mind screamed at my heart, which was cowering behind my rib cage and pleading for mercy.  
  
Her next question came out of left field. Do you ever wonder about your sexuality?  
  
I gulped, as my spirits unaccountably soared. No, I don't wonder. I know I'm a lesbian.  
  
She eyed me for a long moment, appraising me, then her gaze drifted back to her own empty glass. I was just thinking, she commented. Standing a little unsteadily, she paid her tab and left.  
  
After that, I went to that damn bar every night, in the hopes of seeing her again. It was stupid, pointless, and illogical -- but maybe that's why I did it. I don't know. All I knew was that beyond all sense and reason, I had fallen in love with this woman, and this was the only place I could entertain the hope of seeing her again.  
  
It was a few weeks, but she came back. She came back!  
  
I saw her the instant she entered the bar -- no big surprise, since my eyes almost never left the door -- and immediately my mouth went completely dry. My heart flopped around helplessly within my chest. A stray thought glanced across my mind, wondering why I was behaving so foolishly. Illogical. Why should I get so worked up at the sight of a woman, when I didn't even know her name?  
  
She plopped down on the stool next to mine, and ordered a drink. When it came, she gulped it down, and ordered another. Only then did she notice me.  
  
Her brows furrowed. she said, Weren't you here the last time?  
  
She recognized me! Something I had said or done had actually made an impression on her! Say something intelligent, hissed a voice in my head.  
  
Uh, yeah, I said intelligently. The voice in my head abandoned me, disgusted.  
  
She flashed me a grin. I thought so. Isn't that funny? I mean, this is only the second time in my life I've been in this bar, and you're here again!  
  
I forced a nervous smile. Yeah, strange how these things work out.  
  
Well, now that I've bumped into you twice, might as well introduce myself. Maureen. She extended a hand to me, which I shook.  
  
My name is Joanne.  
  
And then we talked. And talked. And talked. We poured out our life stories in ways that only two complete strangers can. Obviously, there were things that I held back, and she probably glossed over or exaggerated a few things herself, but it didn't matter. She told me about one friend's recent marriage, another's recovery from drug addiction; I told her about my own circle of friends at the office. She described dropping out of college to become an actress; I mentioned working hard to become a lawyer. Every sentence accented our differences, our completely unrelated lives. We didn't have a single thing in common, except for a love for life and friendship. I loved her more every second. And somehow, she ended up inviting me to her apartment.  
  
I then said something really stupid. I thought you had a boyfriend. Mental smack on the head for that one. She hadn't at all brought up her comment from the first meeting.  
  
But all of a sudden, that earlier question hung in the air between us heavily, almost tangible. _Do you ever wonder about your sexuality?_'  
  
She smiled, a little mysteriously. He doesn't live with me.  
  
I nodded. All right, then.  
  
So I went back to her apartment with her. And, well, what happened, happened.  
  
The very next morning, she called up her boyfriend and dumped him.  
  
Since then, I can't say that my life has been perfect. Loving Maureen, I've discovered, is extremely difficult. As I said, we are two very different people, and sometimes we clash. Okay, often we clash. But I wouldn't trade it my life in for anything in the world. And that's where I find myself, at this moment, this Christmas Eve. With Maureen pressed tightly against me, and me grinning like an idiot, completely, utterly happy.  
  
And you know what the best part is? It isn't logical at all.  
-----------------------------------------  
  
all right, i took a nice long break from writing, but now i'm back. unfortunately, that means that i expect reviews. so review. please?


	4. Reverse Midas - Roger

Reverse Midas

DISCLAIMER: i have exactly 5 dollars and 23 cents to my name. please don't sue.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: wow. it's been a heckuva long time since i finished any rentfic. i'm out of practice. but here goes....  
  
Reverse Midas  
by kaydee falls  
  
---------------------------  
She's back. The words repeat themselves over and over again in my brain. Shesbackshesbackshes backshesback. I don't think I'll ever let go of her again.  
  
It's strange. It always seemed to me that everything I touched in this world, went bad. But Mimi, she was the fluke. It was my touch that saved her. My song. She said it was my song that brought her back. And I'm clinging to that concept, like a drowning man grasping for a straw. Me. I saved her. I did. Roger Davis. How could that have possibly happened?  
  
All my life, I've been trouble. Like a streak of bad luck that just won't go away, I have a tendency to latch onto the people who deserve so much more -- and then I drain them. But it never seems like it's my fault, not directly. I try to be a good person, to improve the lives of others, and I end up ruining them.  
  
It's like that childhood fable of King Midas. He was some royal dude who got himself a wish, so he asked that everything he touched would turn into gold. And at first, he had a grand old time of it, poking walls and mirrors and chairs and the like. Gradually, though, he realized that something was a bit off. Like, he tried to eat, but it turned into gold in his mouth, as did the water he tried to drink. But it never hit him until his daughter ran up to him for a hug -- and became a statue.  
  
Talk about a good thing going bad.  
  
The story of my life. Take the circumstances of my birth. Mom and Dad were going through a rough patch in their relationship, so Mom figures she'll get pregnant. Age-old trick: keep the boyfriend by having a kid. I was supposed to save their marriage. But that would be too easy. Instead, once I'm born, Daddy-o packs his bags and runs off. No one's heard from him since.  
  
My mother always blamed me for him leaving, in a way. Not that she ever said it in so many words. But you could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. The way she looked at me. The way she branded me with his last name, to make sure I never forget that I had a father, and that he left. My fault that he walked out on her.  
  
I mean, logically, I know that it wasn't my fault, that they'd been having too many problems already, that it was my mom's mistake and not mine. I didn't do it on purpose; but, indirectly, I caused him to abandon us. Ruined my mother's life.  
  
April. Another prime example of me screwing up someone else's life. None of my friends really liked her -- Mark, Maureen, Collins, Benny. They blame her, sometimes, for what happened to me. My drug use. My HIV. My depression. All stemmed back to April, in their eyes. But they're wrong -- sometimes I even think they realize that they're wrong. It's just easier for them to shift the responsibility onto a girl they didn't like and barely knew, who's dead anyway, than their old pal Roger.  
  
But when I met April, she was just a young, naive, beautiful girl-child, barely eighteen, alone, in the big city for the first time. She had already fallen in with the wrong crowd, true, but not beyond redemption. Maureen introduced us, and I guess I fell in love at first sight. I thought I could make her life better. Shelter her, protect her, love her. All I wanted was for her to be happy. So what did I do? I shot up with her. Kept her away from the gangs, and made sure she always got the highest quality heroin. Great job, huh? Accelerating her drug use. For all I know, she contracted HIV from me, not the other way around. It was only a fluke that one of her friends got the heads up first, that she went and got herself tested without telling me, that she was the one to find out. And where was I when she found out? At some fucking stupid club, partying with some friends. When I got home, it was too late. Mark and I found her in the bathroom -- well, you know the rest. If I had only been there, she might not have.... If I had never met her, she might still be.... My fault. All my fault. Always my fault.  
  
And then Mark. My best friend. I ought to know better than to have a best friend. Midas, everything I touch. Bad enough that I send him into nervous anxiety over me when I was shooting up, but then I get AIDS and lapse into depression. He had to be there to help me through the rehab, the withdrawal. He had to force me to get myself tested for HIV. He had to watch over me when I found out I was positive, keep me from following April's lead. He had to keep reminding me to eat, to sleep, to take my AZT. He was always there.  
  
And what do I give him in return? I yelled at him, fought with him, hated him. I took away his chance at a promising film career -- how could he go to interviews or get his footage when he had to watch over me all the time? He lost Maureen because of me -- part of her reasoning (other than Joanne) was that he was more attentive to me than her. He had no life, he retreated behind his camera worse and worse over the months, pulling away. Now look at him. He's a great friend, great person, but he has nothing. Nothing. Thanks to me.  
  
By the time Mimi showed up, I knew to be wary. Wary of contact. I might rub some of myself off onto her. I pushed her away. But she wouldn't take the hint. A couple of hours later, we were kissing by the light of the moon, serenaded by the sounds of the riot on Avenue B.  
  
Mimi. I screwed up her life, too. I was so terrified of how I might hurt her that I hurt her even worse. Trying to help her, keep her away from me. And that was my Midas touch. Every time I fought with her, she would start shooting up again. Or she'd go to Benny. I was killing her softly, a thousand times over. She should never have come knocking on my door.  
  
But she did. And no matter how many times I pushed her away, she came back.  
  
She's back. Shesbackshesbackshesbackshesback. My song brought her back. I can't believe it. I hurt her so badly, but then I was the only one who could bring her back. It's so strange, isn't it?  
  
My grin is irrepressible right now. It's plastered on my face, probably for good. I love her so much.  
  
Now I remember the rest of that story, the King Midas saga. He got a second chance, a second wish, somehow. He asked that he could reverse it all, that when he touched the golden fruits of his folly, they would go back to normal. Not gold. Real. Then he ran back to his daughter, and when he touched her lifeless golden statue, the gold melted away and she was alive, laughing, beautiful again. She came back. He almost destroyed her, but then he brought her back.  
  
Like Mimi. My Midas touch almost destroyed her, but I brought her back. She's alive, and warm in my arms. I'll never let go of her again.  
  
I reversed Midas. Nothing I touch could ever go bad again.  
--------------------------------------------  
  
wow, it took me a long time to write this, and it ended up being so short! oh well. feedback appreciated muchly. flames are excellent for toasting marshmallows.


	5. Perpetual Anticipation - Collins

Perpetual Anticipation

DISCLAIMER: here we go again. no, i still don't own them. yes, once i do you'll be the first to know. no, i don't see that happening any time in the near future. oh yeah, and my title comes from a song from A Little Night Music, written by the immortal Stephen Sondheim.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: continuing the series that i'd almost forgotten. yup, still that finale. Collins's turn.  
  
Perpetual Anticipation  
by kaydee falls  
  
---------------------------------  
  
_Perpetual anticipation is good for the soul, but it's bad for the heart...  
--from A Little Night Music_  
  
----------------------------------  
  
Mark's got his camera out again. And here I thought he was finished with his film. Old habits die hard, I guess. I can see him zoom in on Roger and Mimi, hear the faint whirring of the video camera beneath all the chatter going on around me. He lets the shot rest on them for a moment, then his restless curiosity takes over and he pans away, intent on cramming as many of our emotions as possible into film immortality. Except himself. He never films himself.  
  
I can't blame him. As I see the lens focus on me, I have to swallow down the sudden urge to smack the device out of his hands. What the hell is he filming me for? I don't belong here. Sometimes I envy his ability to hide behind the camera, letting himself disappear. I wish I had an escape like that.   
  
I grin at Mark, suppressing a sigh, then glance over at our happy couple. Roger and Mimi, that is -- Joanne and Maureen are another story entirely, although I think they might actually be at peace with each other for the moment. But Roger and Mimi are, well, euphoric. I think that's the only way to describe them. It's a beautiful sight.  
  
I wish I could hide.  
  
But that's not my nature, is it? No, not Collins. Collins is the strong, supportive member of this dysfunctional family. Collins never crumbles, never falls to pieces, never acts ridiculously or irresponsibly. Collins is a limitless supply of kindness and fatherly love. When Collins has emotions, he lets them show. He doesn't hide, or run away. Not Collins.  
  
I smile wryly. I can't even blame the others for making me live up to this image. It's a picture of myself I've devoted my life to creating and maintaining. Normally, I'm proud of it.  
  
Normally.  
  
What the hell is normal?  
  
This pretty little picture certainly isn't. AIDS victims don't normally have near-death experiences. We just have death experiences, period. And yet Mimi bounced back. I wonder -- when it's my turn, will Angel shoo me back, too?  
  
No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. That bright light' is the only thing I have left to look forward to, and when I bump into my lover there, he had better welcome me in, not keep me out.  
  
I smile, almost in spite of myself. It's impossible for me to think about Angel without a smile. He was so kind, generous, warm, perfect. I loved him so much.  
  
I remember the few weeks after Angel's funeral, the flurry of activity. I had to be doing something at all times, to swallow my grief. And in a way, it worked. I could get through whole days at a time without breaking down and crying.  
  
Never mind that my pillow was damp with tears when I woke up every morning.  
  
All in all, though, keeping busy is a marvelous antidepressant. Having plans always gives you something to get up for in the mornings. Preparing for an event occupies your mind. Anticipating a new activity keeps you energetic, hopeful. I should've thought to recommend this to certain former roommates -- not that they ever listen to me.  
  
Rewiring that ATM was the most extensive project. It's more than opening up a panel and clipping a few wires, you know. There are so many details to be planned, variables to be accounted for. It thrilled me.  
  
And it wasn't just designed to spew cash in response to a code. What my friends don't yet know, what I'll never tell them, is that for every amount of money they withdraw by punching in A-N-G-E-L, twice that amount is deposited into another account.  
  
I've called it the Angel Fund.  
  
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I went to Joanne to have a new will drawn up.  
  
she asked me, tiredly. I could practically read her mind. It was bad enough that Angel was dead, Mimi was missing, Roger was somewhere west of the Mississippi, and Mark was moping around the loft. Now Collins was getting ready to die, too.  
  
It's reasonable, I insisted. My old will left most of my estate,' whatever that is, to Angel. He can't inherit it anymore, and besides, now I've got all the stuff I got from him to take into account. Angel had left behind a far larger hunk of cash than any of us had expected, myself included. I need a new will. Please, Joanne, you're my friend. Don't argue with me about this.  
  
She gave me a searching look. I just feel like there's more to this than you're telling me.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
Then I told her about the Angel Fund. And how, after my death, every penny in it was to be donated to an AIDS research center.  
  
She smiled sadly, and obeyed my wishes.  
  
After that, I tried to get myself involved in a few other projects, but nothing seemed to take. My heart just wasn't in it, anymore. That's when I realized that there was only one thing I was still looking forward to. And that while some anticipation can be exciting and energizing, this indefinite period of waiting was beginning to wear me out.  
  
The day I came to this realization, this finally knowing what I was waiting and longing for -- that was the day I stopped taking my AZT.  
  
It's been two weeks now, and if anything else, I feel better than usual. My doctor told me to expect this -- this period of seemingly improved health -- while the virus multiplies unchecked in my body. He says that it will undoubtedly be followed by a rapid decline, and then....  
  
And then, my resolution, the end of my perpetual anticipation.  
  
I hadn't expected the days to wear away so slowly. I hadn't known how hard it would be to keep my mind and body here, while my heart is already pulling me elsewhere. It aches.  
  
God, I miss Angel.  
  
I want to disappear....  
  
Mark's got the camera aimed at me, yet again. This time, I shake my head slightly and turn away. I catch the vaguely worried flash in his eyes, but he shrugs it off and pans over the lovers again. Watching them is the hardest part of waiting. They aren't stuck in the anticipation rut anymore. They're complete already. I stare at the floor.  
  
_And I swear, Angel was there...._  
  
He's here. I know it. I can feel him, sense him. I swallow hard, trying to ignore his spirit. This isn't a ghost story. This is real life. In real life, my Angel won't ever come back for a visit.  
  
But I want him so much. I miss him. I need to join him.  
  
Soon,' a phantom voice whispers in my ear. Soon, love.'  
  
I whisper.  
  
Soon.'  
  
And the feeling is gone, leaving me wondering if it was just my imagination.  
  
I hope it wasn't.  
--------------------------------------------  
  
::blinks:: i have no idea where any of that came from. maybe i'm just very, very strange. i had planned for this to be such a NORMAL fic, too! oh, well. may i learn how to write collins better sometime.... review anyway.


	6. A Happy Medium - Mimi

DISCLAIMER: i think we've been through this.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: took me a nice long break from writing fanfic, but i'm back! continuing the series with Mimi.  
  
A Happy Medium  
by kaydee falls  
  
-----------------------------  
I wonder if any of them really believe my story.  
  
Not that they'll ever challenge it. I'm back. What more do they care to know?  
  
No, that's unfair. Collins believes me, or at least he wants to. I can tell by the way he closes his eyes slightly, in silent struggle, voiceless prayer. I know what he's thinking. He's envious. Beyond all reason, he envies me. Or does he pity me? If he was in that tunnel, would he let Angel push him back? I don't think so. But we have different desires, Collins and I. Mine has his arm around me, and Collins's is beyond this world.  
  
But the others don't believe me. Hallucination, they'll say, dream. Not real.  
  
What is real?  
  
I'm real. Roger's arm is real, wrapped around my shoulders. Roger is real. Joanne is real. Maureen may act fake, but she's also real. Mark is real. Collins is real -- for now at least. He's fading, but real.  
  
Do all people who have near-death experiences think about these things afterwards?  
  
What do I believe?  
  
I was raised Catholic, and for a very long time, I believed. I believed in everything the Church told me to believe, with unquestioning faith. I didn't even understand everything they set in front of me, but I believed it anyway. A good Catholic girl.  
  
When I was thirteen, I made a horrible mistake. I actually thought about all the things I believed, and realized that quite a few of them didn't make any sense to me. So I asked my mother _how_ the miracles came about, and _why_ Jesus could rise from the dead, and _who_ God really was. My mother didn't answer my questions. She yelled at me instead. So I asked my father. He didn't answer my questions, either. He called me blasphemous and a few other names, and then he hit me.  
  
I realize now that this is no indication of the behavior of most good Catholics. Most good Catholics would have filled me with Bible verses, and sent me on my way. Or would have at least been kinder about reprimanding me. I was only thirteen.  
  
But when you're thirteen, you think that your family, on the whole, must be the norm. They are the only normal you know. So I never asked anyone else these questions, but kept them bottled up inside of me. Inside my head, they multiplied until there were thousands of questions bouncing around, banging against my skull, trying desperately to worm their way out. But I would not ask them. Instead, I gave up seeking answers entirely, and I gave up trying to believe in mysteries that had become painfully confusing.  
  
I finally banished the questions by coming to the firm conclusion that because I didn't believe, I didn't care. They went away after that.  
  
My parents felt certain that if I wasn't a religious girl, I would fall into wicked ways. So, because I stopped believing, I decided that I might as well prove them right, and gradually fell into ways that they would definitely classify as wicked, although they seemed all right to me. It was fun to dress in clothing that made all the boys stare. It was cool to escape reality by smoking or sniffing or injecting whatever I could get cheapest. It was more interesting to hang out on the streets than to go to school. I had found something new to believe in, a wild life in which nothing mattered but today. I believed in living for the moment. It was a concept I understood, that I didn't have to ask questions about, and I believed.  
  
Then one day when I was sixteen, my father decided that my anti-Catholicism had gone too far. He called me a slut and a few other names that didn't really have anything to do with my lack of religion, and then he hit me a few times. So I left.  
  
Once I was on my own, I didn't give much though to what I believed anymore, except for maintaining my no day but today mantra. When I was high, I believed all kinds of fascinating things that, when I hadn't just shot up, seemed pretty damn ridiculous. When I was at work, I believed in the money all those dirty-minded men could give me. I didn't bother believing in love; that was a notion that was mutually exclusive to my profession. Cheap whores don't love, they fuck. And I was damn good at it.  
  
And when I contracted HIV, I believed in AIDS. Because I had to.  
  
Then I met Roger, and for the first time in my life, I believed in _somebody_; in a person, not an idea. And I believed in love, because I felt it. It had suddenly become something tangible, something I could see and smell and touch. So it was real, and I could believe in it.  
  
When he left me, when he went off to Santa Fe -- I stopped believing in anything. The world was a blur that I didn't particularly care about. There was nothing left in it for me to believe. So I gave up.  
  
I should have died. I believe that.  
  
But I didn't. Instead, I was found, and I was brought back to the only person I had ever believed in. And then I did die, but somehow I didn't. Because I was headed down a tunnel, and I was stopped, and turned back.  
  
What did I decide? What do I believe?  
  
Everything. I believe everything.  
  
Because you don't have to believe just one thing or another. I believe that I died and that I lived. I believe that Angel is dead and that I just saw her. I believe that there is no day but today and that I have a future and past. I believe that I love Roger and that he loves me.  
  
It's easy. I've found my balance and my perspective. My death and my life gave me the open-mindedness to just see and accept. Because there's an up and a down, a high and a low, a bitter and a sweet, a life and a death, a Roger and a Collins and a Mark and a Maureen and a Joanne and an Angel. And a me. Me, me, Mimi.  
  
Belief is no more than discovering the happy medium in life, and accepting it.  
  
Just believe me.  
--------------------------------  
  
i had no plan for this fanfic/chapter. i wanted to see what would happen if i just took mimi and started writing a train of thought for her. this is the result. it's a little weird, and maybe even a little clichéd somewhere, but it was a fun experiment for me anyway. i hope you liked it. please review.


End file.
